Penance
by Globus Hystericus
Summary: Sherlock has a secret, and a way of dealing with his secret. One night it seems he takes it a step to far.
1. Penance

"Ah, Jonathan. You're back early." Sherlock commented, nonchalantly shutting the laptop he held. It was a long shot to hope for a reply; John barely even cast a glance in Sherlock's direction as he entered the room. "She's just a female, John, everything heals in time, etcetera..." He uttered, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice,

John just sighed in response, practically throwing himself onto the leather armchair,

"Cheer up, Jo-"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John groaned, snatching the television remote from the arm of the chair with the intent to watch terrible entertainment, "What's wrong with the tv?" he mumbled, relentlessly pressing the ON button, but getting no response from the grey screen.

"Needed a fuse,"

"And you couldn't have taken one from any other electrical appliance in the house?" John's voice got gradually louder, anger evident in his tone,

"We need every other electrical appliance in the house." Sherlock sighed "I think keeping the freezer running is far more important than you getting to watch the latest episode of mediocre, irritating commercialized human beings with their cliché 'dreams' of being pop stars."

"Well it's not like we use the freezer for freezing food is it?" John yelled, getting to his feet,

"Extremely useful though," Sherlock said, blatantly disregarding John's infuriation,

"You know what, Sherlock? I'm not in the mood for this, tonight! You are aware that there's two of us living here aren't you?"

"I do notice it now and again."

"Sometimes I am sick of you, Sherlock! Your silly experiments, and the lack of space you give me. And the stupid sociopathy! You could just pretend you care, for once."

"I think you should get some rest, John." He answered, his voice as monotone as he could possibly it. Sherlock couldn't be less considerate about John's recent breakup; at least any normal human being would assume that. If it were Sherlock studying himself, or even his older sibling, Mycroft, it wouldn't be too difficult to see Sherlock's desperation to stay calm, for his voice to not crack the tiniest bit, for him not to be affected by John's anger. In fact, Sherlock desperately wished he could comfort John, but he couldn't, he knew what comfort consisted of. He would like to think it's because he would like to retain his emotionless 'dignity' but the truth was, he was terrified of John. He was terrified of having the job of being close to John, to have to offer him comforting words, to tell him there would be other girls out there for him, other girls to occupy his thoughts. And he always assumed after the inevitable break up of John and Sarah he would be somewhat pleased, yet he was only thirty minutes into the breakup and he was certain of how his night would end, like every other night John had a date.

John didn't say a word, turning on his heel climbed up the stairs, rather heavy footed.

Midnight, it was midnight. John was certainly asleep now, asleep and bathed in tears probably. Sherlock couldn't pretend not to hear the sobs, and he couldn't pretend they didn't hurt him too. The tears were inevitable, John and Sarah had been together a good seven months, and the doctor had clearly grown rather attached to this female.

Sherlock followed the footsteps John had taken up the stairs not a few hours before, but Sherlock wasn't destined for John's bedroom, nor his own. The bathroom at the end of the corridor with the glassy, olivaceous doorknob that took a few twists to work and a rusty lock that often got stuck.

The lovely dull while bathroom, and Sherlock's usual seat, on the glossy tiles of the floor that chilled his whole body. And the pine basket of unused towels, that had been there since the day they had moved in. At the bottom of the basket, under a heap of ratty fabric there sits a knife.

The drugs Sherlock used, the morphine and cocaine, they were impossible to use anymore, even for Sherlock. John could immediately tell of their effects and how often Sherlock used them, which led to threats, threats to call the police, to call his brother. All which were sincere.  
>But the knife, the knife was Sherlock's new drug. Or more likely an old drug, as a teenager, Sherlock never knew the pleasures of drugs; he could never get a hold of drugs. Yet, as a teenager and a child and even into adulthood Sherlock knew the hurt of being different, looked at wrongly, thinking differently, being abnormal; the efficiency of hiding emotions and hiding behind an excuse of sociopathy. And when it all came down to being desperately alone in his bedroom, he never cried, and outside he never had an excuse to roll up his sleeves.<p>

And to come back to where he was again, he was ashamed. Ashamed he had no other way to dispose of emotions, or to suppress his feelings for John. Because it had become quite obvious to him now, he was in love with John. John, the only one who could tolerate him, who found him fascinating rather than a freak, he was the only one that cared, that cared of Sherlock's health. Yet only his doctor, only ever his doctor and John could never have feelings for Sherlock.

The blade was still sharp after all these years, since being a twelve year old boy staining his pastel green bed sheets and saying he had had a nosebleed during the night.

He rolled up the expensive white shirt sleeve, revealing many faded scars amongst fading scars upon his porcelain wrists. Vengefully tracing the scars with the blunt side of the knife, his hand was visibly shaking with anticipation and the flesh on his wrist seemed to tingle ever so slightly, as though it were beckoning him to do what he felt he needed to do.

He could hide the fact John was never going to love him, John was straight, John liked women, John couldn't stand Sherlock sometimes. Sherlock was still the same freak he had always been.

And he cut the flesh, a week of yearning and urges and itchy cuts all came down to this, the glorious feeling of the chill of the metal slicing through his skin, burning his wrist, and the spectacular crimson that stained his skin. He didn't want to love John, John wouldn't want to be loved by Sherlock and he wanted John to know he was sorry, but there was no other way to apologise.

He cut again, deep _**and again**_, all suppressed rage and hurt and pining was being released, and it felt too good, _**and again**_. His breathing grew heavy and loud, _**and again**_**.** He winced, yet not in pain and he almost laughed to himself, _**and again**_, so foolish, like the red haired teenage girl that had just been faced by the prejudice white haired popular girls**. **_**And again**__, _the anguish draining from him and the colour draining from his cheeks. It was over, he had killed the hurt, and it was gone, until next time, until he felt the same again. _**And again**_, John would never know how Sherlock felt for him, and it would stay that way. And in the end it all welled up to these very moments _**and again...**_

_**And again**__, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again... _until the blade clattered helplessly to the floor.

"...Sherlock?"


	2. Denial

This isn't the strongest chapter, I'll admit, there are many areas it could be improved .. But I feel like I've been writing this part forever- with the initial, being unhappy with it and re-writing it, forgetting to save the re-written version, continuing and better the one I wasn't happy with, finding an autosaved version of the re-write and mashing the two together. I'm glad to get rid of it.

* * *

><p>Then came the inevitable rapping on the bathroom door,<p>

"Sherlock, are you in there?" John asked quietly, his voice a wet croak,

Sherlock had nothing in him to reply, rapidly being drained of blood it was an effort to keep his eyes open, he couldn't speak a word that wouldn't come out as a painful grunt, he didn't need to worry John, he desperately tried to grasp onto the tiny bit of hope he had that John would believe the bathroom door was broken and go back to bed.

"Sherlock, please! I know you're in there. Open up!" John commanded, in a tired croak.

Sherlock focused all his energy on pulling himself from the ground, he would stand up, pull open the door with his good arm and tell John to use the bathroom downstairs as he was busy. Then he could pass out on the floor. But his body disagreed. Bright black shapes started dancing before his eyes and sweat slicked the man's forehead; his voice was only a croak as opposed to what he intended it to be.

John sighed, loud from behind the door, muttering something about Sherlock being 'Fucking stupid'.

So Sherlock went for it, snatching the metallic bath-shelf and forcing himself from the ground. But he misjudged, his head throbbed madly as he lunged for the door; only to find himself face to fibre with the pastel pink rug- Then the bath-shelf came crashing down to the floor behind him.

Now suddenly, John's voice was barely a whisper and all his body would let him do was to desperately suck in breaths of air.

"Sherlock! I need the toilet" He yelled, "Let me in, I _really _need the toilet! If you're just messing about-" John silenced, taking a stance outside the door as though he was waiting for a reply. But all that could be heard was loud wheezing.

"Sher..." John sighed, "Sherlock are you alright?" He spoke gently, "Sherlock, listen I'm sorry for earlier, if that's what this about?" He still relentlessly twisted the doorknob, "Sherlock! Sherlock, please?"

Sherlock fell back onto the linoleum, his head hitting the floor with a dull thud, he felt around feeling for something, anything to regain his strength, but it was mere disillusioned hope. His eyes rolled back into his head and he closed them tight, John was pounding at the door, with blatant intent to open it by force. The pounding rattled through Sherlock's brain, he opened and clenched his fist tight with the rhythm of the pounding. His head throbbed, and even tears managed to streak down his porcelain cheeks without any recognition from himself.

By the time the door had swung on its hinges with an almighty crash, worthy of waking Mrs Hudson, Sherlock couldn't hear John's cries, nor feel John's fingers amongst the crimson tracks on his arms.

* * *

><p>Soft, cheap, fibrous, scratchy,<p>

"Sherlock, you're an idiot."

Clean, antiseptic, medicinal, sweat,

"A complete and utter fool"

Gentle, sympathetic, regretful,

"Why the fuck would you do this?"

Quiet, technological buzzes, silence, footsteps,

"Why?"

Bright, too bright, white, plain,

"Hospital?" There came a quiet, croaky response,

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, it was intended to be a shout but came out a mere whisper,

"Why am I... Oh" Sherlock realised his mistake, "How did you- What happened?"

"I was hoping _you_ could explain that to me." John uttered, his voice stern, but expression, sympathetic, "I found you on the bathroom floor."

Sherlock simply shook his head, a dark curl slicked with sweat dropping on his forehead,

"Tell me"

"No." Sherlock said plainly, "Take me home."

"No, Sherlock, tell me!" John spoke, his voice a little higher than usual,

"Take me home" Sherlock repeated, showing no expression,

"You did this to yourself, tell me why." John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, attempting relentlessly to make eye contact with the blank, staring, Sherlock Holmes.

"Take me home, John. Please."

John's fingers tightened around the other man's shoulders "This isn't the first time you've done it is it? No, no! I saw the scars I saw-"

"John!" Sherlock yelled finally, his broken voice as loud as he could possibly make it, "No!"

John sighed, slumping back into the uncomfortable chair, "Sorry, I-"

"Perhaps you would like me to repeat myself again, take me home." Sherlock's voice regained a little of its original charm.

"I can't," John uttered quietly, "You're not in the right state-"

"I'm perfectly fine, besides, you're a doctor, and you can look after me."

"It's not as simple as that; it's not just physical healing..."

"John. I am fine, trust me." Sherlock offered a weak smile, "Take me home, please." He said gently,

"Let me look after you," John mumbled, "Let me look after you _properly_. And I'll see what I can do."

Sherlock faltered for a moment before nodding slowly,

"Thank you." John whispered.

* * *

><p>"Lie down, Sherlock."<p>

"John, it's only a few cuts, it's fin-"

"It's the blood loss you're recovering from!"

"Nonsense, I'm fine." Sherlock said, falling into an armchair, "I'm sure I picked up on Lestrade saying something about a case when I was in there"

"No! No cases, you're recovering, you can do the case when you're better"

"I'll never be better" Sherlock mumbled almost silently under his breath,

"What?"

"I'm better."

"No, you're not." John sighed, "Lie down, Sherlock. Talk to me..." He said gently,

"I'm not your patient, John. Stop it with the faux sympathy, it's really not helping." Sherlock got to his feet swiftly,

"No, you're not my patient." John yelled after him as he stalked up the stairs, "You're my friend, Sherlock. I _want_ to help."

"Stop trying then." And the conversation ended with the slamming of the bedroom door.

Like a jealous teen, Sherlock curled up in his debris-filled bed. He was basically grounded by John, and on top of that, John didn't trust him. Sherlock couldn't pretend that the penknife usually adorning his drawer had just disappeared, how disappointing, Sherlock had experiments to finish, those that didn't include drawing on his wrists.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock wasn't asleep, although being curled up in his bed, upstairs, away from John, he had been aware of John's presence since his feet hit the floor and he rose up from his armchair downstairs, yet Sherlock did not notify John of this.

"Sherlock..." John repeated softly, nudging the dark haired man.

Sherlock made no movements, no sound,

"Sherlock, I know you're awake."

Sherlock's eyes flickered open and he groaned at John's sympathetic expression.

"What do you want?" He moaned, voice slightly muffled by a thin duvet, even though he was well aware of John's intentions.

"Sit up, please?"

Sherlock repeated his initial 'leave me alone' groan, a few octaves higher,

"Please," John uttered, his voice intense,

Sherlock pulled himself up from the bed in one swift movement (though still managing to look like a moody teenager), he let his feet dangle off the edge of the bed.

"Yes?" He asked, tapping a vaguely familiar rhythm on the laminate floor,

"We need to talk." He said plainly,

"John, we've been through this. An experiment went a little-"

"Don't give me that, Sherlock! I know you've done this before, despite what you think I am _not_ stupid!" Infuriation ran through John's words, but his face still held deep sympathy,

"I said nothing of the sort. I am utterly fine, John. Trust me, just bored. So please, give me time alone."

"But, Sherlock-"

"Leave me alone, John."

For a moment hurt shone in John's eyes, the hurt came like a shot in the stomach to Sherlock, but he showed no sign of pain, so John turned on his heel.

"Have it your way." He spat.


	3. Desperation

"I'm just saying, my brother is unpredictable; _please_ take care of him"

"I assure you, I'm trying my best"

Both men seemed almost blissfully ignorant of Sherlock's presence on the staircase,

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock uttered plainly, taking slow steps downwards, "Lovely of you to pop up a whole thirty-six days after the incident..."

"Don't pretend you were not aware of me 'popping up' only a few days after"

"Ah, yes. To _spy_ on me." Sherlock chuckled, muttering something about 'immaturity' under his breath, "I'm quite sure you've seen enough, I would appreciate it if I couldn't hear your chatter with John every Friday evening while I attempt to sleep."

"He's only worried, Sherlock" John exclaimed, before Mycroft had a chance to retort,

"Worried?" Sherlock snorted, "I don't recall seeing this man by my bedside at the hospital." His face suddenly grew stern, "I don't recall seeing this boy by my bedside, when I needed him!" He reached the bottom stair,

"I... don't understand..." John muttered,

"Don't pretend you didn't see it, Mycroft." Sherlock seethed, ignoring John completely,

"Now, Sherlock-" Mycroft tried to reason with his dulcet tone,

"I was just a twelve year old boy, barely old enough to know better..." Sherlock said, stood with his hands on his hips, "Did you think you could pretend it would go away?"

"I didn't..." For once, Mycroft seemed to be at a loss for words, "Sherlock... You have to understand,"

"Nosebleeds, yes, nosebleeds. It fooled mother easily enough, didn't it?" He continued, ignoring Mycroft, "I assumed you might pluck up the courage to tell her I was lying. Thankfully, you didn't."

"You're sick, Sherlock" Mycroft reasoned in a gentle voice, refusing to retort with angry words,

"I am completely fine, Mycroft," He spoke his brother's name with venom on his tongue, "Leave."

Mycroft didn't need to be told again, he knew well of his brother's stubbornness, there was no use trying to reason with him,

"Thank you, John, for your information." Mycroft said gently to the seated man,

John offered a weak smile as a 'you're welcome', being frightened of infuriating Sherlock further,

"I hope you'll get well soon, Sherlock." He said, turning to the man on the stairs, Sherlock only glared,

Mycroft left without saying goodbye.

"Twelve?" John asked as soon as the door slammed shut, "You did _that _when you were twelve?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, as if John had not been in the room during the debate between him and his brother,

"Nothing?" John rose to his feet, "Sherlock you _cut_ yourself when you were _twelve_!" John exclaimed, the more emphasised words coming out as mere shocked whispers, his phone buzzed in the background, but alas, was ignored.

"Yes," Sherlock replied plainly, "And thirty six days ago was nothing. Absolutely no relation at all."

"I don't believe you."

"Don't you?"

"Well you haven't been honest with me about this yet,"

"I assure you, I have, John." Sherlock answered calmly, "Don't press the matter." Sherlock turned on his heel, and stalked off back up the stairs. Sherlock had pretty much returned to normal over the past 36 days, cases as usual, his attitude never faltering. But John couldn't help but notice how he avoided him more than usual.

John strode in the kitchen, angrily. Why couldn't Sherlock see he was trying to _help_? John wasn't against him, he pulled a tumbler out of the cupboard, his hands shaking with frustration, the tumbler slipped out of his grasp and shattered on the floor.

He left the glass there, uncaring to the mess he made, or if he would accidentally remember he smashed it when he woke up and trod through the house barefoot tomorrow morning.

"Sarah, I know... I'm sorry"

John's voice was muffled through the wall of his bedroom, but clear to Sherlock.

"Sherlock has been on my mind a lot recently, I'll admit that, but he's ill, Sarah!"

John paused for a moment, for the voice down the phone to respond, "Listen, I just... miss you, alright?" He said softly, "I know you don't think this would work, but I think perhaps we drifted apart a little, that's all."

Sherlock sighed to himself, eyes stinging with the unfamiliar fear of tears,

"We could try? What do we have to lose?"

Sherlock didn't cry,

"Okay... Bye..."

The conversation came to an end. He heard John stalking around his room, lounging on his bed, pacing and pacing.

Sherlock had had John, for all of 36 days, John followed him around, and making sure he was fine. And now he wanted Sarah back, his girlfriend. Understandable really, he had no time to discuss matters with Sarah because of Sherlock. But, Sarah had taken this to heart, if John really wanted her back, why would he leave it for so long? She didn't understand.

Sherlock had strolled into the kitchen without realising it, propping himself up on the counter top. He could still hear John pacing, pacing and sighing. John was hurt and it was purely because of Sherlock.

His arms stung as the rough fabric of one of his cheaper shirts brushed against healing wounds, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He had nothing to hide anymore.

There was a sob, a quiet strangled sob from upstairs. As much as Sherlock tried to block it out, it was still there.

He pulled himself from the counter, as ungraceful as he had ever been, he yanked the stubborn drawer open.

And there was the feeling, more physical that emotional, the instant urge rising in his chest, he tried to force it down, but it was a part of him. His arms ached, and all he imagined in his head were lines being engraved in his own arm. A perfect distraction, and god, he wanted that distraction over anything else.

He rummaged through the cutlery drawer, butter knives creating grooves in his palm as he pushed them away, searching hungrily. Unaware of the lack of pacing, that John was now listening desperately to the sound of metal smashing together.

Sherlock wasn't going to find anything sharp enough in there, John had removed all sharp knives, Sherlock was already aware of that.

So he sunk to his knees, shutting his eyes tight, feeling like a small child, so desperate, so vulnerable, a grown man, so pathetic. His nails sunk deep into the porcelain skin of his wrists, barely making dents upon the scars.

He sat silent for a moment, trying to drive away the urge, the feeling deep within his chest; rising to his throat- he held back a cry.

His eyes opened a little, and wondered around the floor until falling upon the thin shards of glass left by John earlier. He shuffled over to them, sliding his fingers upon the smooth surface of a larger shard before daring to pick it up.

Utterly unaware of the soft footsteps so very near to him, he held the shard up to the small light of the single light bulb adorning the ceiling, examining the interesting shades of green it created; then taking it from the light, so very near his arm, he was so close, so very close to the seething white hot pain he glorified so badly, and nothing would stop-

"Sherlock?"

The voice was hollow and dry, "Sherlock, no!"

John ran over, wrapping his arms around Sherlock chest and dragging him backwards, Sherlock struggled violently,

"No!" He cried, "I wasn't!" his voice strangled and wet, "I wasn't going to!"

John pinned him to the ground, wrestling the shard from his grip, which was surprisingly hard due to the fact Sherlock had curled his palm around the shard and was ever so blissfully ignorant to the fact it was slicing through the calloused skin of his hand.

"Sherlock..." John uttered, prying the glass from his fingers and throwing it aside, now on top of Sherlock, his hands resting on the other mans shoulders, "Sherlock," He whispered, voice full of disappointment,

"I wasn't," Sherlock repeated, in a childlike fashion, tears now streaming from his eyes and John collapsed into him, breathless with shock and the effort it took to wrestle the detective down, John sobbed into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

"Stop, please, please, please," he whispered, "stop."

Sherlock didn't reply, but for now the urge was lost.

And there, on the cold uncomfortable tiles of the kitchen floor, they slept.

"Sherlock, are you awake?"

"I have been awake for quite some time, are you prepared to move?"

"Oh... Sorry..." John said, blushing as he pulled himself from Sherlock's body, his own body aching,

There were a few moments of slightly awkward silence while Sherlock pulled himself up from the floor and John wondered around the kitchen nervously,

John sighed, "You were going to..."

"No," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper, "No, I wasn't."

"Don't lie to me, please. Sherlock," He sunk to his knees by the discarded glass after retrieving a dustpan and brush and proceeded to clean it up, Sherlock watched him intently, "This is not like you."

"Perhaps, you don't know me as well as you think," Sherlock muttered, casting a careless glance in John's direction before wondering out of the room,

"You know I can't let you do this?" John asked, finding Sherlock stretched out on the couch,

"Do what?"

"Kill yourself,"

John perched carefully on his armchair,

"Oh, come on, John. I'm hardly _killing_ myself."

"Do I have to remind you how you almost _died_?"

"That was an accident"

"An accident" John echoed under his breath, "I can't- Sherlock... I can't watch you do this to yourself,"

"Then leave."

It was hard for John to believe that Sherlock was being sincere, but with a second thought, Sherlock hadn't asked for John's help for quite some time, nevermind ignoring him completely,

"I care about you, I can't leave for you to kill yourself," John mumbled, closing his eyes briefly, somehow it felt too shameful to cry in front of Sherlock,

"Why would you care?"

"Because!" John said a little louder than he intended to, "Because, you're my friend. For god's sake, Sherlock, we're not all like you! I don't want you to die, I want to help."

"Don't pit-"

"This is not _pity_, Sherlock!" A tear trickled down the man's cheek, "Please, talk to me."

Sherlock sat up, "Please, John. This is beyond what you would understand." Sherlock said plainly,

"Try me," John muttered, wiping his eyes relentlessly,

"Stand."

"...What?"

"Stand up, John."

"Wh-" John began, but thought it best not to question and got to his feet nervously,

Sherlock followed suit, and walked over to John, their body's close, so very close. Heat radiated from John, and Sherlock closed his eyes, this is the human contact Sherlock missed, being able to feel the warmth of someone.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, his voice trembling slightly,

Sherlock lost all control of his temptations, he brought a hand to the back of John's neck and pulled the man's limp body to him, pressing his soft lips against John's, in a hard kiss, a desperate kiss, hungrily pulling the shorter man closer, with a hand on John's waist.

John was unresponsive, but for a few moments Sherlock didn't care. He ran his tongue along John's lips, begging him to open his mouth, and then he came to a realisation. What did he expect the unresponsive John to do? Be submissive. No. He pulled away, his breath shaky and eyes filling.

John just stared with wide eyes.

"I-I'm sorry" Sherlock stuttered, he didn't intend to take it as far as it did,

"Sherlock I-"

"No!" Sherlock uttered quickly, turning and walking upstairs with heavy footsteps.

John slumped back into his chair in shock, before muttering to himself...

"_What the fuck?"_


End file.
